Just Another Race

Today was triathlon #4.

I ran around like a madwoman packing last night. Since it has been 10 months since my last triathlon, I almost felt like I was starting from scratch again. I was terrified I'd leave something important at home, like my bike.

I was also feeling horribly unprepared. I haven't trained nearly enough lately as it's been challenging to fit into my schedule. I really do like the late-night swim workouts as it's really nice to have "me" time at the end of the day, but there's only a couple of nights a week that works for my family and the days that it does, "stuff" has been coming up lately.

I used to not work out/blame not working out if I couldn't go at night. Since some of the reasons I couldn't work out were actually valid, I had to start finding other ways to train. Some of them were utter failures, like the day I decided to try and get in a swim while my daughter was at preschool. Know what? That's exactly when they do the hour-long water aerobics class at my gym. I may try that another day, but I really needed lap time, so I bailed, went home, and walked her home from school.

I've spent time on my bike trainer and tried riding outside with my daughter in the trailer.

Can we just say right now, that I am the Queen of Flats? Out of four possible tires (two on the bike and two on the trailer), guess how many flats I got on that trip?

Four.

Seriously, this is ridiculous. And it did nothing to inspire confidence that I could make it through a triathlon without a bike issue.

Anyway, I got about two hours sleep because the dog needed out and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I just shut off my alarm at 4:59 and got up. Had breakfast, loaded my bike in the car, and took off.

I did not like how tired I was on the drive. I was worried not that I wouldn't make it through the event, but that I would be too tired to drive myself home. I made it there fine, checked in, got bodymarked, and set up my transition space. Realized I forgot flip flops to go from the swim to transition, but couldn't do much about it then and decided I'd just let my feet freeze on the walk since it wasn't too far.

I was all proud of myself that I had packed everything so well (except the flip flops), put things in a locker for post-event shower and change, and walked back out to transition to finalize and double-check.

I then shed my socks and shoes and lined them up. Barefoot, I headed into the pool, nearly an hour early. Plenty of time to relax, warm up, and be ready to go.

Except...hmmm...something didn't look right. All the athletes in there were men. I went and checked the lanes and starts. Apparently, despite that this was the women's pool last year, it was the men's pool this year. So I headed out to find the women's pool. My feet were utterly freezing by time I'd walked almost all the way there. I headed back to my transition space, picked up my running shoes and socks, put them on and decided I'd sacrifice the time it took to put them on in the interest of having feet that were not numb for the bike ride.

Oh. Did I forget to mention that it was 35 degrees outside?

The swim started well, but I felt soooo sloooow. I don't know if it was because I felt like I was trying to keep up with my lane mates or because I'm not used to swimming in the morning. I ended up doing the last couple of laps in backstroke.

I did finish in about 12 minutes. Unfortunately, since I had to put on my shoes, get out of the building and go about 25 yards before I crossed the transition mat, this is not what my official race time reflects. Thank goodness I was just racing myself and no one else.

As I was walking the *very long* (I estimate about .2 miles) distance to the transition area, I saw a childhood friend that I haven't seen in years, who was volunteering at the race. Then a little while later, I realized i'd dropped one of my bike gloves and had to run back to get it. The running did not go well as I was still a bit wobbly from the swim.

Transition went okay, but I have to say that I really don't care for my bike shoes. They're kinda narrow (and they were the widest ones I could find when I bought them) and they are actually kinda hard to get onto my feet. To top it off, my socks were all soggy since I put them on straight out of the pool and was dripping all over the place.

The bike portion went (by my standards) really well. The racers were fairly well spaced out from the swim. I have to say though, that last year I was passed. And passed. And passed. And passed I don't know how many times because I had a broken rear derailleur. It was awful and frustrating. This year, I was only passed by 4 women. But I passed 3! I got passed by a number of men as well, but again, *nothing* like last year.

I didn't even have any problems with my bike.

My toes were freezing though by the end as even though the temperature had risen to maybe 40 degrees, there was a touch of wind breezing through the vents in my shoes and turning my toes into icicles.

I got off the bike before transition and urgh. I love my bike, I love the saddle because it doesn't hurt my um, undercarraige while I'm riding, but it does press right on the origins of my adductor muscles. Meaning that when I get off the bike, those stabilizing muscles for walking are...less than stable.

I waddled in to transition, both because I don't move swiftly walking in my bike shoes and because my muscles were still adjusting. I took my time in transition because I was trying to get my muscles to chill out.

Now, last year when I did this race, I jogged the 5K. And it was the first 5K I'd ever done in my life, so I was pretty proud of myself.

Unfortunately, my back still hadn't recovered from the morning of crawling and while my back is better enough that I was doing a triathlon, it was not well enough to run.

Yeah, those women I passed when I was on the bike? One of them passed me on the run three times.

Again, good thing I'm only racing myself. I got most of the weirdness I was feeling in my adductor muscles worked out on the walk, but the pain was just too much every time I tried to run.

I didn't have any family with me at this event, but the cool part was that my childhood friend had come to the finish line and high-fived me as I crossed.

I just went straight to the locker room, showered, changed, then packed up and drove home, where I promptly went to sleep.

My husband and I had *good* tickets to a game tonight, and although I felt recovered enough to be at a game, we usually have to park about a 15-minute walk from the game and I just wasn't sure I was up for it.

So final "official" results for today vs. last year:

Segment	This year	Last year
Swim (500 yds, indoor)	13:26	12:58
Transition 1	7:27	3:15
Bike	53:03	1:15:54
Transition 2	3:59	2:58
Run (5K)	52:45	48:33
Overall	2:10:42	2:23:39

I'm not honestly thrilled with my performance and even though I didn't know my times as I left the race, I realized a huge thing as I was driving home.

This was the first race I've done without pain medication. On a related note, it's also the first race I've done that I didn't have a migraine afterward.

If nothing else, that is a huge accomplishment.

Migraine Land

Yeah.

The migraine totally didn't sleep off.

I couldn't sleep, tried some aleve and an ice pack on my neck, which helped, but not enough. I finally took a migraine pill this morning, called in late for my meeting, and drove when I was feeling a *little* better.

By *little* better, I mean that when I got to the meeting location (which I'd never been to before), the first thing I did was scope out where the restrooms were in case I had to make a stomach-initiated biohazard dash.

One of the guys at the meeting even teased me because I was so quiet for the first part of the day, which is, to say the least, a bit out of character for me.

Oddly, by the end of the day, I was feeling considerably better. Since these meetings usually *cause* migraines for me, it's a good thing it didn't get worse.

Not This Again

Since I've been absent in posting for so long, this is a catchup post, but one I thought relevant leading up to Triathlon #4.

I started Dragonboating again last month. For those of you unfamiliar, Dragonboating is a pretty big deal around here and there are a lot of clubs around the world that participate in this sport. I even have a cousin who has paddled on the US Master's team and competed internationally. She's the one who got me into the sport waaaay back in 2004. I had a blast and paddled for several years. Unfortunately, in late 2004 when I hurt my back, it made paddling rather difficult and painful and I had to step away. The last time I was seriously in a boat I wasn't even paddling--I "called" for some of my team practices while I was pregnant in 2007.

Dragonboating is not rowing. When you row, you have an oar, usually "locked" to the boat in some form. The rower puts the oar in the water behind them and then pulls the handle portion towards their body. The boat is moving in the direction of the rower's back. The oars are oriented horizontally (mostly). Dragonboating uses paddling technique where the paddler reaches the paddle forward in front of them, it is oriented vertically (when done correctly), and the paddler faces the direction the boat is moving. It involves some twisting of the torso which was part of what made me have to quit paddling before as it was just too much for my back.

Since my back has been considerably better (not good, just better), I thought I'd try it out again this season. I've been doing well, and if anything, it seems to be helping to get in a different form of exercise. The drawbacks? My team practices at 6:00 in the morning twice a week.

I. Am. Not. A. Morning. Person.

So I've been reluctantly hauling myself out of bed to get to practice the past few weeks.

This morning though, there was no hauling to be had.

When I woke up at 5:00, I went to roll over to get out of bed and electrical-shock pain went through my entire back, abdomen, and legs. Occasionally when I wake up this happens. I take a few deep breaths and try to move s-l-o-w-l-y. Deep breathing and slow movement was not working. Any lower body muscle contraction was sending the electrical-shock pain currents through me. Unfortunately, my bladder had woken up and was being rather demanding, so I kept trying to move because my bladder is not particularly patient, especially in the morning.

It's kind of a good thing we don't have a bed frame right now because it meant I was close to the floor. I absolutely couldn't straighten, so I very slowly managed to ooze to my hands and knees. I actually crawled to the bathroom.

Once there, I cried a little because I felt so pathetic and I couldn't figure out how I was going to get myself up on to the toilet. I think there was a considerable amount of moaning as I maneuvered myself. But then I sat there for awhile when I was done, so I could recover enough to move off of it again.

I managed to ooze back to the floor and crawled back to the bedroom. Again grateful for no bed frame, I deep-breath, slow-moved myself back into a sidelying position, where I stayed awake and deep breathing until my husband woke up two hours later.

Which means yes, I skipped dragonboat practice. But considering I couldn't stand upright, I wasn't going to crawl out to my car (let alone crawl down the waterfront to get to the dock) to sit in a boat and not paddle.

The Moroccan kindly got me ice and aleve and a glass of water and I tried to rest some.

I drifted off and woke up a couple of hours later. I could (slowly) get to vertical, but all movement was still horribly painful (although the electric shock sensations were limited to when I moved too fast, as opposed to moving at all). I had massage clients scheduled for later in the day and was trying to figure out how, when I could barely stand up, I was going to give someone else a massage.

I finally called my husband at work and asked if he had any of his painkillers left from knee surgery. He said yes, and that I could have then if I needed it.

I took one.

About an hour later, it kicked in enough that I could move around again, although I had to be really careful with how I moved. But I could move.

I gave the massages, took one more pain pill later that night...and a couple hours later my back was fine, but I could feel a migraine coming on.

Unfortunately, since I can't take my migraine medication with certain painkillers (it could cause seizures) and I didn't really want to call the doctor and say, "Hey, I took some of my husband's high-level post-surgery narcotics without doctor's instructions and I know that's illegal, but can I take my migraine pills now?" I decided to go to bed and hope I could sleep it off.

Just a Little Ways To Go

I'm going to try to be positive here. In other words, possibly not terribly realistic.

It doesn't really matter what goals I have right now; a triathlon would be terribly difficult for me if I had to do one tomorrow (flat tires on my bike aside). I know I have to make up some lost ground from the last year--four months of being sick, four months of frustration trying to figure out what to do about Catalina (and then realizing it really wasn't in the budget) and then four months of simultaneous crazy busy schedule and lack of focus/motivation. To be clear, I'm not making excuses, just taking a look at where 2011 went.

Downhill.

So whatever my goals are now, I have a lot to do. And The Moroccan has agreed to train me for the Kilamanjaro goal.

One of my frustrations/complaints/excuses (take your pick; they're all accurate) over the past several months has been about Little Bug's bedtime and routine. We're a cosleeping family by choice. Our pediatrician fully supports it and for the most part, it has been the right path for us as parents. When I say "for the most part," there are two issues that have been challenging for me. 1) She likes to fall asleep WITH someone, and if I want her to go to bed early, that is usually me, I fall asleep with her and am not awake until the dog wants out. (I could go on and on about my sleep issues but that's another post. Or three.) 2) I spend a lot of time "resisting" the pushing she does as she snuggles, which I think irritates my back (as when I sleep alone I don't have that issue).

The big news in our household though is that a couple of weeks ago, Little Bug decided she wanted to sleep alone in her big girl bed. A tiny piece of my heart broke and The Moroccan was really sad about it, but overall it has been great for me. My back is already feeling better in the mornings AND I don't have to lie down with her to get her to sleep, so after reading stories I can do other things.

More big news: The Moroccan told me that if I'm going to go work out, he will make sure she gets to bed at a reasonable hour. I can't even say how much this means to me as having that shift to a more shared responsibility takes such a weight of concern off of my shoulders.

So a couple of days ago, we managed to set up an informal schedule for me to work out (around the evenings when he plays soccer). And the first task he gave me is to work on the stair climber. A lot.

Allrighty then.

I first tried this a couple of days ago. I knew that it would probably kill me be good for me to start in small increments.

Like five minutes at a time.

You know those little categories they have for heart rate that you can calculate? Resting, Fat Burning, Cardio training, Maximum? And how you should work at a set "target" based on your age and your goals?

After about two minutes on the stair climber, I had my heart rate up to "You Should Be Dead Already." I gave it three more minutes and then I quit and went back to the treadmill.

But I said I was going to be positive in this post.

On the way home, I started thinking about where I was in May 2010. I couldn't walk to the end of the block and back without having to lie down on the couch for the rest of the day due to pain. I always had pain unless I had painkillers. I couldn't do *any* form of workout without pain, including walking at two miles per hour on the treadmill while on painkillers AND because of those extreme limitations couldn't even get my heart rate into the triple digits--in other words, while working out to my maximum physical capability, I was still in the "Resting" heart rate zone.

Okay, so running my heart rate up to You Should Be Dead Already might not be genius, but I did it, and I did it without pain. Well, without back pain. I did feel some muscles on the right side getting a bit cranky, but it wasn't my back preventing me from doing more. For me, this is a hugely positive change from where I was. Not to mention that the treadmill--which I then ran on--felt easy and it used to be my nemesis.

Fine, Fine. I'll Explain.

This story actually goes back quite a ways. But this is me and I can't tell a short story and it's my explanation, so here goes.

1997 (I told you this goes back quite a ways.)
I was living in Japan, teaching English. I was alternatingly thrilled to be living this "exotic" life overseas that I'd dreamed of nearly my whole life vs. completely astounded at how mundane and annoying some of my not-so-exotic life was. I learned a lot, was exposed to so many things I never would have seen or learned in the US, and at the same time, was really annoyed and frustrated with some of the day-to-day things I had to put up with. At times, I felt extremely isolated as I had gone there alone and knew no one there. I developed some friendships with a few other foreigners which at times was great and at other times was a challenge. As an avid reader, I craved anything I could get my hands on that I could read, because my Japanese...well, didn't exist.

I don't remember where I found it, but I ended up with a magazine that had an article in it about a climb up Kilamanjaro. For those of you unfamiliar, this is the highest peak in all of Africa. Now, when I say "climb," I use the term because nobody says "I walked up an 18,000 foot mountain." Because 18,000 feel of elevation is hard and saying you "walked" it is like saying someone who swam the English Channel "floated" across. It is (I have read) the highest "walkable" summit in the world--but even the article I read talked about how some of that walk was like steep sand dunes that you scramble on all fours and for every three feet you climb, you slide back two.

Despite my (sometimes) disillusionment with how "romantic" and "adventurous" living overseas was, climbing Kilamanjaro suddenly sounded very exciting to me--that same sense of romantic adventure (and I don't mean "love" romantic, but "wonderful" romantic). So I put it on a "to-do" list. Now the popular term is "bucket list," but I hadn't heard that back then.

Last week
We were having dinner with friends. The Moroccan casually mentions that he and some friends of his are planning to climb Kilamanjaro.

I about fell out of my chair. Not because I was excited about this. But because it was the first I'd heard about it.

"Are you serious?!" I asked.

I must have sounded totally incredulous because he looked at me with concern (it may have been "please-don't-tell-me-you're-going-to-object-to-this-concern") and said, very cautiously, "Uh, yes. But we haven't quite worked out the details and stuff."

Tangent: I'm so used to "not having the details worked out and stuff" that truly, this would not alleviate concerns I might have had. End tangent.

"I want to go. I really want to go. Will you train me to go?"

I think this was the point where he about fell out of his chair.

And with every right, because 1) I'm not in shape, 2) My exercise schedule has been pathetic (more on this later), 3) I have never, ever expressed any interest in mountain climbing before, and 4) I had just asked him for help.

It was then his turn to ask if I was serious.

The rest of the conversation was not all that interesting as we established that yes, I was serious, and yes, I had a lot of work ahead of me and then we got on to other topics.

A few nights ago, he asked me again if I was serious. He started laying out some things we'd have to do and some other (more local) mountains I would have to climb in preparation to see if it is something I could do at all.

Since we're now talking about it seriously, I have to take serious steps to get ready. I have been having problems scheduling triathlons due to my judging schedule and not knowing when we're going to visit the relatives this summer and it has become very clear to me that if I don't have a very specific training focus...I don't have anything to work towards and have problems doing it.

Also, this is no "little" goal. Sometimes I am a total minimalist with things--my first triathlon did get me moving again, which was huge. I toyed with the idea of building up to larger distances than sprint, but I hate running so completely much that I didn't want to do much more than a sprint triathlon. My attitude towards triathlons also was not to be competitive (that would be delusional), but to do them. And I've done that.

Don't get me wrong. I still want to do more and as soon as we figure out our schedules, I'll be trying to see which one(s) I can do/afford, and I will be there, because the specific focus will still help me. Plus I'd like to get over whatever my issue is with swimming in open water.

But I need a bigger motivator to move me forward. Something that I want to do, that has meaning for me, and is achievable. (So, for example, Mt. Everest is a non-goal, probably ever. That level of danger has no appeal to me.)

My big concern with Kilamanjaro (aside the whole fitness level bit) is altitude. I've had altitude sickness before. It was minor, but it still kicked my butt. And I wasn't all that high up. I know you can acclimate (which I didn't do before), so I'm hoping we'll have a chance to do that.

When got altitude sickness before, I was going up Toubkal with The Moroccan. We'd gone from sea level to 1500 feet one day, then from 1500 feet to 7700 feet in 7 hours. This was when I started showing symptoms. Minor, like shortness of breath, which was holding us up from getting to the refuge. So they threw me on a mule and we kept going. You know, because the best thing to do for someone exhibiting signs of altitude sickness is to take them higher. By time we stopped at 10,500 feet, I was nauseated and not thinking clearly. One example? When I was on the mule, I had to make clicking noises out the side of my mouth to keep the stubborn animal moving. When I got off the mule, I walked around for about five minutes, continuing to make the clicking noises until I realized I didn't need to any more.

The Moroccan only noticed just how ill I was when I refused to eat dinner. I didn't think I could hold anything down, and even if I could, I wasn't sure I could make it up or down the stairs in the refuge again because I felt so wobbly.

I felt much better in the morning, but again, this was only 10,500 feet.

Kilamanjaro is over 18,000 feet.

So 1) I have to get into shape. And 2) I guess I'm going to have to deal with the altitude when we get there.

One Word.

Kilamanjaro.

Don't Get Too Excited...

...because this isn't a "real" post yet. Give me about another week and things should quiet down enough that I can get back to work.

However, in the meanwhile, I'm going to share some personal history that is evidence I need someone to cook for me.

Not because I'm lazy (that's beside the point) or because I don't enjoy it (also beside the point).

Because I am lucky that so far, I have not (entirely) burned down a house due to one of my cooking disasters.

Stuff burning in our kitchen is probably a weekly occurrence. I have no patience to stay in (or even near) the kitchen while waiting for something mundane to happen, like bringing the frozen pizza to an edible temperature. Plus, I figure if I can set a timer, the four-year-old can come let me know when it beeps (she's actually better about this than the Moroccan), and I can come fetch whatever it was from the oven. I am the Queen of Multitasking. (Note: I specifically did not say I was the Queen of Successful Multitasking.) So I will deposit something in the oven or on the stove, leave to use the restroom, walk by the computer on the way back and end up reading Facebook posts until the smoke detector goes off.

My mother really did try to teach me to cook, and when I have the time and patience (which is rare enough that it's safest to say "never"), I can follow basic recipes. I make fantastic French Toast and excellent grilled cheese (which is almost exclusively what I lived on while in Japan). However, I don't eat much of those any more, which means I'm either eating something raw (green peppers are a favorite), packaged (yay for string cheese), or I'm picking out the least burnt parts of whatever I tried to cook. If I'm really lucky*, the Moroccan cooks dinner early enough for me to eat AND prepares enough for me. This is rare though as he likes to eat at 9 or 10 pm at earliest--if I eat that late and close to when I go to bed, I don't feel well in the morning. Plus if I want to go work out, I have to eat a couple hours before then because running is hard enough without trying to simultaneously digest. In any case, my cooking is atrocious. I probably shouldn't even call it cooking because cavepeople had to have had more culinary skills than me or they would have starved to death since they couldn't, you know, open a new can of food when the first one ends up charcoal.

*The Moroccan has a different definition of "lucky" than I do.

The first signs that I had issues (that I remember) were in high school. I was making baked potatoes and decided to brush premelted butter on them. Unfortunately, since it was already melted, it dripped to the bottom of the oven. I was in the kitchen when I heard KKSSSHHHH.......pwooof! KKSSSHHHHH.....pwoof! When I turned around, I saw something that can only be truly described as a direct copy of the flame spurts in the fire swamp from The Princess Bride.

Yeah, Mom wasn't too happy about that one. However, since the butter that dripped onto the bottom of the oven would sizzle, then burst into flame, we kind of felt like it might not be wise to open the oven door, so we had to just wait until the potatoes were done. Except for a very few scorch marks, amazingly they turned out okay.

During the same period of my life I set the toaster on fire. In my defense, I would like to explain that all I did was put in two slices of bread and push the button. However, since I already had the fire swamp episode behind me, when the toaster burst into flames and set the cupboard above it on fire, somehow my family decided that it was my fault that this had occurred. It didn't help that I had walked out of the kitchen while the toaster was on and someone else had to deal with the problem.

Jump ahead to after college (I lived in the dorms all through college and although I complained regularly about the food, clearly I'd never had to live off of my own cooking for that long a period of time or I would have kept the whining to myself) and I moved to Japan--but I already told you about how I lived on French Toast and grilled cheese there. My problems with cooking in Japan were not so much things being burnt. I had a shoebox apartment, with a one-burner stove that was right next to my miniature sink. For reference, both the burner and the sink fit into a surface area the size of a regular cookie sheet, if that. The problem was that if so much as a drop of water got into the element of the burner, it shorted it out for several days, meaning I couldn't cook (or burn) anything, so I had a lot of convenience store food since I couldn't afford restaurants.

Come home from Japan and one of my few cooking achievements was a lasagna dish I made one night for my roommate. It was fantastic. It took me two days of planning, a week's worth of grocery money for the specialty ingredients, an hour of prep the night before, and four hours that night.

Seriously? I don't have that kind of time to cook. It's actually cheaper and faster to burn something, toss it, and go out to eat. I've never put forth that much effort on a single dish since.

Okay, yes, there are simpler recipes and cheaper ingredients. Not the point here.

I. Don't. Enjoy. Cooking.

And not enjoying it does not motivate me to learn to be better so I don't suck at it quite so much.

Instead, I am a culinary fire hazard.

My biggest catastrophe in my current home was the actually very serious grease fire that I (accidentally) set last year, resulting in a damaged (but still functional) microwave, scorch marks that go up the cupboards and onto the ceiling, third degree burns on The Moroccan's hand, and burns on the dog (we literally had to go to the doggie ER to get her treated). I escaped unscathed (physically), because I was so useless running around screaming ohmigod! whatdowedo? whatdowedo? that The Moroccan told me to just get out of the way.

Since then, the number of burned meals has not really changed, nor has my attention span or apparent ability to care enough to do something about it.

Tonight though, was probably one of my lowest moments.

I decided to make a special treat using Halloween candy: S'mores.

It turns out that you can, in fact, burn graham crackers in the microwave. And when they are burned especially badly, they get stuck to the plate (Note to self: burnt graham crackers could replace super glue, must see if we can get a patent on this).

I did manage to successfully create some unburnt S'mores afterwards, but since the kitchen and family room smelled like smoke, it was a bit hard to tell. Also I belatedly remembered that I've never really enjoyed S'mores because I don't really like marshmallows, and my daughter and husband don't really like chocolate, so the whole thing was really an exercise in futility.

Except, of course, to remind me that I need someone else to cook for me.